


Normal Love

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Prick and Perforate [2]
Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: A meditation on addiction and compulsion, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, disguised as a simple story about fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 16:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8379295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: You're never alone with your jones.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "Normal Love" is the title of a film by Jack Smith. The quote in the summary comes from an Afghan Whigs song with an unfortunate name.  
> The events here-in take place after my last story, "A.J.'s Annual Party", which should be read first, for the greatest enjoyment of this story.  
> I am not involved in the production of Twin Peaks, and this school is not involved in the production of Twin Peaks. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and goodnight.

We're all addicts- that's what you'll learn. Taking trips across the border, the end result of which is teenyboppers getting strung out, sweating and twitching in study hall, no doubt. Watching guys in the pen smuggle stuff in any way they can, fighting, killing, even dying for it. It took Hank weeks to figure out why bleach, regular bleach, from the laundry, was kept under lock and key. It was the needles- keep the cons from disinfecting their works, the rationale was, and they'd give up. Once he'd realized this, he'd laughed. When the prison's bleach couldn't be had, they got it from the outside. When that couldn't be had, they used nothing.  
It doesn't have to be dope. There are lots of things in this world to get addicted to. Sex is another popular amusement. On the outside, as well as on the inside, people were dying for that, too. Hank wasn't lying to Norma about thinking about her on her big, soft bed. When he imagined her, she was usually asleep, and he was just watching her. That little satin thing she wore on warm nights slipping down, showing him one perfect tit as her chest rose and fell with her breath. Norma smiling in her dreams, lips parting. You have to learn to make do with nothing. So it'll feel good to have something when you finally get it. Not that Hank exactly made do with nothing. Everyone's queer when they're alone. It's its own kind of queer. You're not exactly saying yes, but you'll be fucked if you say no.  
It's that way on the outside, too. Hank learned that, as well, a long time ago. What people say and what they do and what they want and what they'll take very rarely meet in the middle. Give most people a push, and they fall for you. Sometimes, though, it still manages to surprise him when they want it so much. That surprise makes him feel like a kid. He's not sure he likes it. He's not sure he doesn't like it, either.  
The best way to get what you want is to convince the person who can give it to you that you don't want it, at all. Convincing them that they want it, too, can also work, but most people are rotten: let them think it hurts you, and they'll deliver.  
“I thought I told you to stay out of here,” Harry says, rough, hot breath against his ear.  
“And you're here, why?” Hank says, “Were you checking the parking lot for loiterers, and thought you'd come in for a glass of water?”  
“Get up.”  
“You'd really deny a man a drink after a hard day's honest work?”  
“You know the terms of your parole. Get up.”  
It's impossible not to smile. Hank gets up.  
“Hey,” says the bartender, “this time, you're gonna pay.”  
“Don't I know it,” Hank says, sotto voce, still smiling to himself, as he leaves money on the counter.  
He lets Harry push him out of the Roadhouse, into the parking lot, to Harry's car, against the door. It's almost a perfect reenactment of the last time. Like the last time, he asks Harry if Harry wants to cuff him. He's answered with a sharp right to his jaw that momentarily throws the world on its side. Shaking his head, rubbing his jaw, he's pushed into the backseat of Harry's car.  
“I'm taking you home,” Harry says like an actor reciting a line he knows so well he no longer feels it.  
“Your home, or my home?”  
“Shut up.”  
“Norma's not there, by the way,” Hank says conversationally, still massaging his jaw back into alignment, “She's spending the night with a friend. Girl talk.”  
“Shut up,” Harry says again, lower, like it's a warning.  
But like a sleepwalker, Harry's turning off the car, getting out, opening Hank's door. Following Hank into the house. Into the room where Hank sleeps.  
“You don't have to keep busting me, Harry,” Hank says, quietly, in the dark. You don't have to raise your voice in the dark. “I could just give you a key. You could let yourself in anytime you wanted to. Wait until Norma's gone to bed. Walk through the dark, quiet house. Open my door. Come inside.” He's resting his arms on Harry's shoulders, now. Harry's not moving. “You could get into bed next to me, probably not even wake me up.”  
Since Harry doesn't protest, Hank kisses him. At first, Harry does nothing, like he's fallen asleep or forgotten where he was, forgotten what to do, but he remembers himself. Remembers Hank. Then, it's hot, bruising, like biting your own lip accidentally. All of that shock and pain melting into relief. How it just rains down over you. Harry's tongue is in his mouth, and his hands are in Hank's hair, one leg pressed between Hank's. Last time, it was rough, kind of weird. Hank's hoping for rougher. Weirder. But also-  
“Also” is Harry pulling his hair, exposing his throat, but then kissing his neck sort of gently, sort of curiously, like you do when you're young, and you're not sure what's real or even possible. Do you remember being that young?  
“You could have me any time you wanted me,” Hank says absently. He lets his jacket drop to the floor, moves Harry's hands over his body. “You could have me any way you wanted me.” He kisses Harry's mouth, licks his lower lip. “How do you want me?”  
All he gets is a half-hearted “Shut up,” which is either the worst or the best thing, but, mainly, it's funny. Harry never really got the hang of words.  
“Come on,” Hank says, “Come on. Sit down with me.”  
Harry frowns, all angles in the dark, but lets himself be lead. Lets Hank take off his jacket and his shirt, feel him up a little through his tee shirt. He leans, sort of huffs against Hank, like it's almost hurting him. Maybe Harry knows what Hank does, about making people do what you want, because it shoves aside all of Hank's half-formed ideas about letting Harry have his way, so that Hank's moving him around, now. Kissing Harry, full and deep as he sits them down, slips his hand between Harry's legs. Touches him like that, feels the shape of him through his pants. Feels him harden, his hand now on Hank's wrist. Without asking or being asked to, Hank kneels, open Harry's pants, takes out his cock. He kisses it, hears Harry's breath hiss in, hiss out again. Harry's hands are in his hair again. He expects to feel a tug, but it doesn't come. Unsettling, cold surprise. Like jumping, and expecting to hit the ground much earlier than you actually do. You just keep falling, nothing to hold onto, nothing to stop you. The room's silent, aside from the sounds that he and Harry make. There could be nothing in the world but the two of them. Harry's hands in his hair. Harry's cock moving in and out of him, slick and bruising. The movement of Harry's hips. The pain in Hank's knees from kneeling this long. How the world breaks itself into puzzle pieces of sensation. Jam them all together, and they still don't truly look like anything.  
He lets Harry fuck his mouth, at a pace he can barely keep. Sometimes, you just want it like that. It's like you're not there, or you're only watching yourself. The less it's about you, the less you exist. Hank is there, though, because he feels it. Fuck, does he feel it. He lets Harry come in his mouth. Half swallows, then kisses Harry and lets the rest spill into Harry's mouth. Maybe Harry's getting off on it, too. Just letting it happen to you. So, he lets Hank push him back, onto the bed, Hank moving over him, moving himself up Harry's body, still kissing him. Harry's hands on his hips, then undoing his pants. Touching him. A rough rub that goes everywhere and nowhere.  
“Remember the last time?” Hank asks, suddenly shy, or something. He's usually good at just asking for what he wants. Making the request pretty enough to irritate. Why's he dried up? Where have his words gone? It's like they can't connect to what he's feeling.  
Harry must know it, maybe even more than Hank knows it, because he says, “Refresh my memory.”  
“You had your fingers up my ass. And you fucked me like that. It hurt.” He wants to see if Harry will apologize.  
“I don't remember you complaining at the time. In fact, you seemed to like it just fine.”  
“That wasn't a complaint,” he pushes himself against Harry's hand, “Just a fact. You've got a mean side to you, Harry.”  
“I take it you want some more of that,” Harry says.  
“Yes. Yes, I do.”  
He doesn't tell Hank to move, so Hank stays where he is, on top of Harry, as Harry pulls down his pants. Whatever Harry gets out of this, aside from the obvious, is still obscure, but Hank has to imagine that it's not just about finding any warm body to fuck. For a moment, at least, Hank can believe that. When Harry's touching him, stroking him slowly, like he's trying to warm him up, like Hank deserves some sort of consideration. Christ, this is weirder than the last time. For that strangeness, Hank spins it out, kisses Harry, touches him, too. It becomes a little performance, then; he's sighing and moaning for Harry like this is real. Like Harry feels something, and Hank knows it, and feels it, too.  
He sucks Harry's fingers, lets him move them in and out, then repositions himself, spreads his legs so that Harry can push them inside. The trick, as with all things in life, is to relax. If you anticipate too much, let yourself get too inside of it, and tense up, then, it's going to hurt. Or, it might be that nothing happens, at all, and you remain intact, unchanged. More likely, though, the other person will push harder, just to prove a point. Harry has nothing to prove, of course. Hank already knows what he's made of.  
Last time, the alcohol helped. Made him feel weak, inside; an inch away from spilling the second that Harry pressed the mouth of the bottle up against his asshole. Silly from the grotesque novelty of the situation. This time, though, he's relatively sober, wound up, tight. God, he wants it. He pushes his hips against Harry's hand, shows him how he wants it.  
“Like that?” Harry says unnecessarily.  
Hank swallows. “Like that.”  
“This might be easier from behind,” Harry says, sounding almost amused.  
“You want to put something else in me, Harry, when I can't see you do it? If that's what you want, you don't have to trick me. Just ask.”  
Harry laughs. “You are some piece of work.”  
“Don't you know it. No,” he shifts his weight slightly, “I think I'll stay like this. I like you underneath me.”  
Harry gives his fingers a twist, difficult in a space so tight, with so little lubrication. Makes Hank forget himself, cry out. There might be blood, later on. That's something you never think about until it's unavoidable.  
He's feeling that warm, liquid feeling. It's different, getting off like this. It always takes him by surprise. Harry's other hand is on him, riding his hip, and that's good. That, more than anything, gets Hank there. Skin on skin. Just being touched. This is when doing without pays off. It makes you hungry. It keeps you hungry. Live with nothing for long enough, and you might never be satisfied again. After a while, you don't even want that, because without the hunger, you find, you're nothing. It has to be like this for everyone, Hank imagines. He knows it. After all, the only point at which you truly stop chasing something- a fix, or a fuck- or something else- maybe something you can't even identify- is when you're dead.


End file.
